


4 Exits (to your apartment)

by palateens



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Fluff, Kent uses a white last name he got from his other parent, Latino Character, M/M, Meeting the Parents, welcome to my world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 08:31:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11802324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palateens/pseuds/palateens
Summary: He wants to say something profound about piecing together the enigma that is Kent Vicente Vasquez Parson.OrThe one where Bitty meets Kent's family.





	4 Exits (to your apartment)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldstandard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldstandard/gifts).



> this is for goldstandard's birthday (love you <3)  
> she prompted BittyParse awkward first date -> what if Kent's making dinner for Bitty -> what if Bitty's meeting his family  
> and that's why this is off topic and I'm sorry. I will write awkward first date later

Bitty sleeps on the train to New York. Kent had offered to fly him into JFK. But Bitty traded him for the opportunity to skip out on ungodly long TSA lines in exchange for covering his Uber to his place. The Uber _should_ take 15 minutes. But of course this is one of the busiest places on Earth, and sometimes Bitty feels like he has a special brand of dumb luck.

He rubs his temple as he checks everyone’s snap stories for the umpteenth time. He thinks he could’ve walked there by now. Then again, who knows how long it would take to walk around Central Park with his overnight bag. It would also be incredibly easy to get lost trying to find Harlem.

Pedestrians and bikes flicker by. He thinks he’ll get a crick in his neck from how much he’s staring up in awe. The buildings are grimy but still so brilliantly lit. Clouds continue to rumble over head. New York reminds him of ants scrambling—quick and with purpose.   

Bitty slumps further back in his seat, deciding to play another round of candy crush.

“So what are you in town for?” his driver asks.

Bitty stiffens. Part of him instinctively wants to lie. His mind already has a story about visiting his cousin who’s going to grad school at Columbia but found this cute little place in Har—

He sighs. It’s New York for fuck’s sake. If this man gives him shit, he can just open the door and walk into the world’s slowest traffic.

“Meeting my boyfriend’s family,” Bitty murmurs.

The driver hums. “When I met my wife’s parents, it was the absolute worst.”

Bitty snorts indulgently. “You don’t say?”

“Oh yea,” the driver says amicably. “Her mother was on the city council and her father owned a butcher’s shop. Her mother made a joke that if I ever hurt her, they could make my death look like a freak accident.”

Bitty shivers. “Any advice? Kinda new to this.”

The driver clicks his tongue, nodding slowly. He scratches his curly black goatee. Bitty just now notices how nicely it compliments his coily, cloud-like hair. His smile is warm as it spreads across his lips.

“Your family says a lot about you.”

Bitty sags. He’s heard that way more than he’d care to hear.

“I’m not saying head for the hills if his folks aren’t your style,” the driver amends. “But you’ll probably learn a lot more about him then you think.”

“I guess,” Bitty huffs.

“Not for nothing, kid,” the driver says, “but you’ve got a lot of life ahead of you, hopefully. First impressions don’t have to be perfect.”

“Thanks, uh—”  

“Francis,” the driver says.

“Well thank you, Francis,” Bitty says. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” Francis says neutrally.

“You have somewhere else you’d rather be right now?”

Francis chuckles. “I’m an immigration lawyer by day. I was offered a very generous tip and a donation to the ACLU to make one trip tonight.”

Bitty gapes slightly. “You know Kent, huh?”

“You could say that,” Francis says with a smirk.

“Mind if I ask how?”

“He’s been very active around Harlem ever since he was traded.”

“I bet,” Bitty says, looking out of the passenger window. “That boy loves his home.”

“He’s got a knack for making a home out of anything,” Francis explains, looking poignantly at Bitty. “Even people.”

Bitty nods. That sounds a little too familiar for his liking.

He knows Kent Parson comes with a lot of baggage and attachment issues. Kent’s a vine of morning glories, entrancing people with his simple charm before they realize he’s wrapped himself around every corner of their lives. It’s a wonder he survived in the desert as long as he did. Some people see Kent as this hardened shell of man. But he’s lush, vibrant, and tender.

Kent’s a song in the morning that makes waking up a little easier. He’s a whisper of warmth against a wet spring fog. Bitty feels his cheeks tinge red. It’s been a while since he felt this way about anyone. It’s thrilling, if not unnerving.  

They pass the rest of the drive with amicable chatter. Bitty learns that Francis has three children with his wife, two girls and boy all under ten. He met Kent when Kent’s neighbor was threatened by their landlord to be reported to immigration. Bitty talks about his job in Boston doing outreach for the NWHL team out there.

Eventually they stop in front of a corner bakery. Bitty takes a deep breath. He looks back at Francis, who offers him a reassuring smile.

“Thanks again,” Bitty says somewhat awkwardly, “for the ride and, well, everything.”

“Glad I could help,” Francis says earnestly. “You’re a good kid. I hope you stick around.”

“Yea, me too,” he admits.

Bitty slings his backpack over his shoulder as he steps out of the car. He inhales while counting to ten; he exhales while doing the same. He hesitates for a moment before pushing open the door of the bakery. _Panaderia_. He can hear Kent correcting him (and probably chirping his pronunciation).

A woman in her twenties, about Kent’s height, with his nose and thick curly hair, is working behind the register. Her eyes flicker to him as she hands a customer back their credit card.

“Bittle, right?” she asks.

“Yea, that’s me,” he says, “my friends call me Bitty.”

“I’m Izzy,” she explains. “Kent’s running late for dinner.”

“Of course he is,” he mutters. He grimaces when he remembers that he’s talking to Kent’s younger sister and maybe—

“He said you were into baking,” she says. 

Bitty laughs. That’s an understatement. But he nods politely.

“Wanna take a look around?” Izzy asks.

“Where? You mean in—”

“Yea for sure.” She waves him to follow her.

He cautiously walks behind the counter. She holds her hand out expectantly, and it takes him a moment to realize she wants to store his backpack. She walks him through the appliances and daily schedule. He asks questions here and there about ingredients, suppliers, and recipes. She shrugs a few times.

“I help out on weekends when grad school isn’t too much,” Izzy says.

Bitty nods, unsure whether it’s polite to ask what she studies. She takes him back out front, showing him the door for the stairwell and instructing him on how to get to their apartment. He knocks on the door to the apartment softly. Bitty would recognize Kent’s mother, Mariana, anywhere. It’s not as if Kent has a million selfies with her or that he’d video call her at least once a week while he lived in Vegas.

“Eric,” she says with a soft smile. “Glad to finally meet you in person.”

Bitty tries not to wince when she uses his first name. He puts his best smile forward and offers a handshake. “You as well, ma’am.”

She tilts her head as she opens the door wider. “C’mon in, Kent’s almost done with dinner.”

He frowns in confusion. “He’s here? Izzy said—”

“Sorry, babe, I asked her to stall,” Kent shouts from the kitchen.

“A hello would’ve been nice, Kent Vicente,” Bitty chastises him.

Mariana chuckles to herself. She ushers Bitty further into the apartment. He’s amazed at how spacious it is for being New York.

“He bought out the entire building when he first signed with the Aces,” Mariana tells him, probably noticing his amazed stare. “Bought out a few more buildings around here too.”

“Ma,” Kent groans, as he turns off the stove.

“I’m just telling Eric—”

“Bitty,” Kent says firmly.

Mariana nods understandingly. “I was just telling Bitty what a _caring_ son I have.”

Kent glares warily. “Sounds fake but ok.”

Mariana bites her lip, snorting. She shows Bitty where Kent’s room is and tells him to make himself comfortable. It’s surreal, seeing where Kent grew up. The desk is littered with paperwork, and the bed is sloppily made. Bitty grins to himself. It was hard to tell that a twenty eight year old sometimes stayed here.

He looks out the window because he’s seen Kent draw this view a hundred plus times. The daisies in his aunt’s florist shop look especially vibrant. He tries to imagine a nine-year-old Kent watching her arrange flowers from this window sill as rain painted the concrete outside.

Someone comes in while he’s lost in daydreaming. He feels arms wrap around his waist as a chin settles gently on his shoulder.

“Hey,” Kent murmurs. “What’cha looking at?”

He wants to say something profound about piecing together the enigma that is Kent Vicente Vasquez Parson. Like maybe he’s trying to undercover the secret life of a boy still mending his heart, or maybe he’s trying to catch lightning in a bottle or—something mystical. Something to encapsulate the universe that is his feelings for this man and what that means for him, for _them_ really.

Instead, he hums contently as Kent kisses his cheek.

“Just...enjoying the view,” Bitty says.

“Yea?” Kent asks softly. “See anything you like?”

Bitty turns slightly to catch his gaze. His lip twitches. “I sure do, baby.”       

**Author's Note:**

> fic title - lyrics from Why Georgia by John Mayer


End file.
